


The Adventure In The Smugglers' Caves

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caves, secret passages and smugglers. What more could a boy want? Oh, right, a snog from his best mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure In The Smugglers' Caves

“This is like an Enid Blyton story,” said John, ducking under a stalactite. Or a stalagmite, he'd never really been sure of the difference.

“What?” asked Sherlock distractedly, staring closely at the rock under their feet as if it was going to tell him anything more interesting than the last few thousand years of geological history. Despite the narrow confines of the tunnel they were in, he was still managing to make his coat swish with every step, and John thought that it was ridiculously unfair that he could look so effortlessly cool even underground. All John had managed to do was stumble about like a badly co-ordinated drunk, banging his head several times on low-hanging ledges and stubbing his toe on the uneven rock beneath his feet.

“Caves, secret passages, smugglers,” said John, gesturing around them with his torch, illuminating various different stretches of identical-looking rock. “All we need are a couple of ineffectual girls and a dog.”

“Why on earth would we need girls?” asked Sherlock in disgust. He paused by an unremarkable section of rock wall and examined it for a moment.

“Never mind,” said John with a sigh.

“Shine your torch here,” ordered Sherlock, turning his own off when John complied so that he could tap on the rock with the end of it.

John watched Sherlock hitting various different parts of the wall with a differing amount of force for a few minutes before he felt compelled to ask, “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“It's hollow,” said Sherlock as if that explained everything.

“There's tunnels and caves all through this area,” John pointed out. The owner of the bed and breakfast they were staying in had shown them a rather archaic-looking map of some of the main ones just that morning, right before Sherlock had announced that they were going to have to go hunting through them. “There's probably just another cave on the other side.”

Sherlock didn’t answer in favour of hitting the wall again, with slightly more force. There was a sudden, sharp crack as it shattered into a fine web of lines that spread out all across the surface, then it collapsed inwards in a loud roar of falling rock. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space and enough to make John duck down and endeavour to cover his head with his hands. Sherlock merely took a careful step backwards, watching the cave in with interest and a slightly smug look.

Once the noise and dust had settled, they were able to see that the fall had left a large, gaping black hole in the wall of the tunnel, leading into another cave, just as John had predicted.

“Ah,” said Sherlock with interest, turning his torch back on in order to examine the hole.

 _I wonder if it was really a good idea to destroy one of the walls that was keeping the ceiling up,_ thought John, just as there was a creaking, grinding noise from the roof of the tunnel. They had only a split-second of warning before the whole thing collapsed in on them, rock and earth showering down in an avalanche as Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and pulled him towards the newly opened hole. Everything went dark as John dropped his torch and fell forwards, then there was a sharp pain at the back of his head and he lost consciousness.

 

****

 

When John woke up, his head felt like it had been split in two and was throbbing as if a pneumatic drill was at work inside it. He groaned and opened his eyes, then abruptly shut them again when the movement made his stomach roll with nausea.

“John?” asked a voice somewhere near-by and it took John a moment to identify it as Sherlock's.

John groaned again as a reply and had another go at opening his eyes, more slowly this time. He was still surrounded by rock, but it was wavering oddly, shadows and light blending together almost as if they were dancing. “Shr-lock?” he tried, the word slurring as if he were drunk. The idea of a concussion floated into his mind briefly then was crowded out again by the pain that just speaking one word had caused.

There was a movement and the shadows all jumped and fled further away. Sherlock's face leant over him, blurry but recognisable, pale curls falling over a face that seemed even whiter than usual. Even his clothes seemed to have turned white and John blinked slowly, trying to work out why. _Looks like a ghost_ , he thought and wondered if they'd died. Surely he wouldn’t be hurting like this if he were dead?

“John?” Sherlock asked again, something that almost sounded like concern in his voice.

“Dust,” said John slowly. It was the rock dust covering Sherlock's face and hair that was making him appear so pale. John concentrated hard and tried to focus on him to see it properly, but the effort made his head burst with agony and he had to close his eyes again.

“Come on, John,” said Sherlock, worry and impatience warring in his voice. “We don't have time for this.”

John opened his eyes again. “Sherlock,” he tried a second time and was relieved when it came out with all the consonants in the correct places.

Sherlock shone his torch right at John's face, bending to examine him. John groaned at the stabbing pain of the light and shut his eyes again. “Eyes open,” said Sherlock firmly, and John took a deep breath and obeyed him, squinting against the glowing after-images.

“You hit your head,” Sherlock informed him. “You've been out for about five minutes – what's the correct medical procedure?”

John had to think about that, pulling hard at the threads of his memory. “Hospital,” he tried.

“Not possible right now,” said Sherlock. “What else?”

John thought again. If Sherlock had been the injured one, what would he be doing? “Pupil reactions,” he said. “Cognitive function. Memory tests. Eyesight.”

“Good,” said Sherlock. He held up one hand and John struggled to focus on it. “How many fingers?” he asked.

His hand was wavering like the rest of the world, blurring around the edges and shifting from one shape to another. John stared at it for a long time. “Three?” he replied eventually.

There was a short pause. “Close,” said Sherlock, lowering his hand. The light flashed around the cave, haloing rocks for an instant before sending them plunging back into darkness. John shut his eyes against the nausea that surged back up in his stomach at the sight of it, but opened them as soon as he thought his stomach had settled enough to cope with it.

“Not good?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Sherlock, settling down beside him. “We'll give it a bit of time. Not that there's much else to be doing.”

John tried to summon the details of where they were and what they’d been doing from the dim recesses of his memory. “It's a cave,” he said. “The roof fell.” He frowned. “Is there a way out?”

“I'm not sure,” said Sherlock. “There's a passage going through over there, but it could lead anywhere. Certainly the way we came is blocked.”

It took several minutes for John's brain to function well enough to realise what that meant, during which time Sherlock seemed perfectly content to just sit in silence beside him, occasionally glancing around at the walls with his torch as if a large sign proclaiming 'Way Out' might appear at any moment.

No one knew where they were – Sherlock had rushed off to investigate the caves as soon as he'd realised that the smugglers must have a secret passage between their house and the sea, and John had followed along behind as he always did, neither of them thinking to inform the police of their plans. They didn't have any supplies – no food, no water, not even any spare batteries for their torches – and neither of them had had any signal on their phones since the first five minutes underground.

John thought about that for a while, his brain moving sluggishly through the logical conclusions that followed that knowledge. If they stayed down here, no one was going to rescue them and they'd die. So, if there was a passage, they needed to try it, regardless of where it might lead. That meant he needed to get up. The very idea seemed exhausting and he spent a few more quiet minutes just staring upwards, trying to summon the motivation to try.

When he finally pulled all his strength together and attempted to sit up, there was a burst of bright light behind his eyelids and a feeling as if he'd been struck with a hammer, coupled with a surge of nausea so strong that for a moment he almost couldn't keep it down and thought he was going to vomit. He groaned and fell back down, eyes screwed tightly shut.

“Don't move,” said Sherlock sharply and John thought he felt a hand rest for the briefest of moments on his forehead, but the whole world was spinning and bursting with pain and he couldn't be sure of anything.

“Yeah,” he agreed dazedly, trying to breathe through the fresh outburst of pain. He lay still for a while, letting his brain slowly regain some semblance of normal working order. He dimly became aware that there was something covering him that wasn't rock or dust, and that whatever was under his head was not nearly hard enough to be the floor of the cave. He felt at whatever was draped over him gingerly with one hand. “Is this your coat?” he asked, surprised. Sherlock's coat was one of the few things that he actually took care of, along with his violin and his skull.

“You're meant to keep injured people warm,” said Sherlock in the dismissive tone of voice he used when he didn't want to talk about something that was outside the usual realm of his emotional responses and which he therefore found confusing.

John blinked at him, registering that the paleness of his clothes, as opposed to his hair and face, was not because they were covered in rock dust, but because he was only in his shirt sleeves. He felt for the mysterious something under his head and found that it was Sherlock's jacket. He wasn't sure what to do with that information.

“Aren't you cold?” he asked eventually.

“A disciplined mind can easily control the body's temperature,” said Sherlock as if it was an insult for John to even have suggested otherwise.

“Thanks,” said John, which earned him an embarrassed glance away at the walls and a cleared throat.

There was an awkward pause and John took the chance to look around the cave. His eyesight was still blurry, but he was able to make out the passage that Sherlock had mentioned, a dark tunnel leading off in two directions. He looked at it carefully for a while, noting the low ceilings and uneven floor, then ran a brief self-diagnostic. His stomach was dangerously close to rebelling, his head thumped as if there were artillery shells landing near-by and he couldn't even imagine managing to stand up right now, let alone making it down the passage.

“You'll have to go without me,” he said.

Sherlock started and stared at him. “What?” he asked.

“There's no way I'll be able to get down that tunnel,” John clarified. “You'll have to go without me, and bring back help once you’ve found a way out.”

“No,” said Sherlock firmly.

John frowned. “What? Come on, it makes the most sense.”

“Of course it doesn't,” said Sherlock with more force than John was expecting. “We've no guarantee that either way will lead out, or that I'll be able to make it to the end even if it does – there are miles and miles of tunnels down here, after all. I have absolutely no wish to wander aimlessly through them until I collapse. If I'm going to die down here, it's going to be with you, not alone.”

“Oh,” said John faintly.

Sherlock let out a long sigh and shifted around to lean against the cave wall. He relaxed back, looking as comfortable as if he was lounging on the sofa at home, and put the torch down on the ground between them so that it cast a circle of light with them at the centre. “It's just a shame we didn't get to catch the smugglers first,” he said, almost wistfully.

John let out a half-laugh and then instantly regretted it when the sound reverberated through his skull. “If this were an Enid Blyton story, the dog would do that for us. And then rescue us.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Dogs are not legally able to perform citizen's arrests,” he said.

John gave up and shut his eyes again. He was beginning to feel tired and he couldn't help thinking that if he just went to sleep, the pain in his head would be gone, at least for the moment. “I need to stay awake,” he said out loud, hoping to reinforce the idea in his mind.

“Open your eyes then,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah,” agreed John, not acting on it, and a moment later there was a bony finger digging into his ribs. “Ow,” he exclaimed, eyes flying open. He scowled at Sherlock.

“Stay awake, or I'll do it again,” threatened Sherlock.

“Talk to me then,” said John, forcing his eyes to stay open. “Tell me a story.”

“A story?” repeated Sherlock. “One with a dog that saves the day? I'm not sure I know any.”

“Anything,” said John. “Come on.” He tried to remember the kinds of stories that he'd made soldiers recount to him in Afghanistan when he needed to distract them from their injuries. “First kiss,” he said, then realised who he was talking to. “Well, first case. Something embarrassing Mycroft did when he was little. Anything.”

“Mycroft never did anything embarrassing, even when he was little,” said Sherlock with a tinge of bitterness, then sighed. “Let me think. First kiss...” his voice drifted off for a moment, then he cleared his throat. John blinked in surprise but didn't say anything. If Sherlock was going to open up some part of his personal history, then the last thing he wanted to do was put him off.

“There was a man,” said Sherlock slowly, tipping his head back against the rock and staring upwards. “The best man I've ever known.” John was not entirely surprised to hear that it had been a man, but couldn't help pushing down the surge of jealousy at the way Sherlock's voice sounded as he described him. Perhaps this wasn't such a good story to hear after all, even if it had pushed all thoughts of sleep right out of his mind. “We were stuck and thought we were going to die,” continued Sherlock, “And I thought, well, what would it matter? If it was unwelcome, we wouldn't have very long to regret it, and at least I'd die knowing what it was like.”

“How did he react?” asked John. It was hard to imagine anyone not wanting to kiss Sherlock, but he was well aware that he wasn't really the best person to judge that.

“Well,” said Sherlock, glancing back down at him, shadows covering his face and hiding his expression, “that's rather up to you.”

“What?” asked John slightly stupidly, and then Sherlock bent down and pressed a kiss to his lips, tentative and soft and such a surprise that John felt like he'd been hit by another rockfall. “Oh,” he said blankly.

Sherlock started to pull back, and John grabbed blindly at his sleeve. “Wait,” he said, frantically. “Hang on. You haven't- That was- It's me?” His mind was whirling way too fast, half-thoughts and barely realised feelings all jumbled up together and making his head thump with more than just the pain of a concussion.

“Of course it's you,” said Sherlock tersely. “Who else?”

 _Oh_ , thought John, blind-sided and wondering if the blow to his head had caused serious enough damage to cause him to hallucinate. Sherlock started to pull away again, but John pulled at his sleeve, trying to get him closer again. Stopping to try and get his befuddled mind around the situation was only going to waste time that they didn't really have. “If we're going to die, it shouldn't be with only one kiss,” he said.

Sherlock started to smile, relief and happiness spreading across his face in a way that John found absolutely fascinating to watch, even if some of the finer details of it were lost thanks to his still mildly blurred vision. Sherlock bent forward, heading back towards John's mouth, then suddenly froze, his eyes going wide.

“What-” started John and Sherlock shushed him, pulling away and turning around. A moment later, John heard it too – footsteps and voices coming from down the passage. “Rescue!” he said gleefully.

“Or the smugglers,” said Sherlock very quietly. John felt a cold tremor run through him at the thought. The last person that the smugglers had caught knowing more about them than they should – the brother of Sherlock's client – had been found in seven different parts scattered over the countryside above the caves.

“Lift your head,” hissed Sherlock and John instantly complied, ignoring the pain it prompted. Sherlock eased his jacket out from under him, then grabbed his coat up as well. “You're alone,” he said in an undertone. “You're an amateur caver, you got caught in a rockfall, you haven't heard of any smuggling and, most importantly, you've never heard of Sherlock Holmes. Right?”

“What?” asked John, struggling to sit up and having to give up when his head sharply protested. “Sherlock-”

“Listen,” interrupted Sherlock. “We can't move you, so they're going to find you. I won't let anything happen to you, John, but you have to trust me. Tell them you're alone and just an idiotic caver and they'll take you to their base. I'll follow.” He stared down at John fiercely for a moment, bent suddenly and pressed a hard kiss to his lips, repeated, “I won't let anything happen to you,” and then disappeared from out of the circle of the torchlight, his coat blending into the shadows as if it were designed for it. _Probably was,_ thought John. He felt completely disorientated and not just from the head injury. That was twice now that Sherlock had kissed him, twice he'd felt his lips against his own. The whole thing felt ridiculously unreal and confusing, especially given how scrambled his brain still felt.

Light appeared down one of the tunnels and the voices grew louder. John took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the danger approaching rather than the sudden revelation that his annoying and unrequited pining was apparently less unrequited than he'd thought. Just as annoying, though, perhaps even more so given that it seemed a single word would have put an end to it all.

The loudest voice from the passage came close enough for its words to be understood. “...told Jack that we should have put off the shipment a few weeks until this investigation blows over, but-”

“There's a light!” interrupted a second voice.

John took a deep breath, half-shut his eyes against the glare of on-coming torches and prepared to give his best 'concussed idiot' act. It wouldn't be too hard in his current condition.

“Help,” he said faintly. “Please help. Oh, thank God you found me.”

There were three men, all larger than John and one, at least, larger than Sherlock. They crowded into the circle of the torch that Sherlock had left behind, shining their own down on his face and dazzling him. He shut his eyes against the glare, feeling the nausea picking up again.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the largest rudely.

“John Hudson,” said John, holding a shaking hand up to block at least some of the light. “There was a rock fall and I hit my head. I thought I was going to die here.”

“You still might,” said one of the others nastily.

“What?” asked John, trying his best to sound stupid and hoping like hell that Sherlock had a contingency plan in case they decided to just kill John right there.

“Get up,” demanded the largest one – clearly the leader.

“I can't,” said John truthfully. “My head – I tried earlier, and I thought I was going to be sick.”

The third man knelt down beside him and inspected his head, pulling it up roughly and making John gasp with pain. “Not lying,” he reported. “There's a fair old whack of blood here.”

John swallowed hard against the bile rising up his throat. “Why would I lie?” he asked. “You- you have to help me.”

The leader let out a long sigh. “Get him up,” he said wearily. “Guess we'll have to take him to Jack, see what he thinks.”

“Surely the hospital would be best,” suggested John.

“You'll go wherever we say,” said the leader. “Up!”

The other two men grabbed hold of his arms, yanking him upwards. John felt his stomach turn over as his head screamed in indignation at the sudden movement and he couldn't hold back a cry.

“Shut up,” said the leader roughly, his voice sounding distant and echoing in John's throbbing skull.

“Who are you?” asked John, his words slurring again. He felt about two steps away from either passing out, vomiting, or both, but he still tried to keep up the charade. Sherlock had asked him to, after all, Sherlock had asked him to and then kissed him, unless that had just been in John's head.

“None of your bloody business,” said the leader threateningly. He grabbed John's chin and held his face in place as he peered at it. “Just stay quiet and come with us.” When he let go, John sagged against the arms holding him up, screwing his eyes shut against the pounding in his head.

“Oh god,” he said in a low voice, and then threw up messily on the leader's shoes.

“For fuck's sake,” swore the leader in disgust, then he backhanded John across the face and John blacked out again.

 

****

 

Things were rather confusing and disjointed after that. John was vaguely aware of being dragged through rock passages, the smugglers cursing at him as they tried to get his limp body through the narrower sections. It all became mixed up with his half-memories of Murray dragging him through the ruined building in Afghanistan where he'd been shot, until he was almost convinced that the smugglers were actually Afghans and that Murray was somewhere back in the darkness of the caves, wounded or dead or lost forever and wandering alone in the black. It took considerable effort for John to remember that it was actually Sherlock behind them and that John had to keep his mouth shut about him.

Eventually, after an interminable eternity down in the caves, he was pushed up through a trapdoor and dumped on a rough wooden floor where he passed out again, this time far more completely and with a faint sense of relief.

When he finally woke up enough to be aware of what was going on around him, he was lying on a sofa, his hands were tied together and someone was having an argument far too close to him for his head to be happy about.

“-left him there! He's half-dead as it is and one more body in those caves wouldn't have mattered a damn.”

“Surely we should find out at least what he was doing and who else knew he was down there? Or is information gathering too much hard work for you?”

“The only information we're going to get from him while he's like this is what he had for lunch today, and that's already decorating your shoes. Go and clean up, and next time just leave well enough alone.”

There was an angry grumble and then footsteps heading out of the room. John risked opening one eye slightly, squinting against the light.

“You're awake,” said the first voice. John opened his eyes properly, trying to push back the pain in his head with the knowledge that he was in serious danger and had no time to pander to a concussion.

Everything about the man standing by the fireplace in the small sitting room that he found himself in said 'smarmy businessman' rather than 'common thug', unlike the men who'd found John in the tunnel.

“I'm Jack,” said the man, smiling coldly. “I suppose you're going to try and tell me that you have no idea who I am and that you were in those caves quite by chance.”

John let out a sigh and struggled to a half-sitting position, wincing as his brain protested but not willing to stay lying down whilst talking to this man. “I was caving,” he said. “There was a rock fall. Where am I?”

He already knew where he was. He was in the large, isolated house that Sherlock had identified as the base of the smuggling operation yesterday, and which he'd announced this morning had ancient smuggling tunnels running between it and the sea which were now being used to bring in heroin instead of French brandy.

“Nowhere you'll ever leave,” said Jack. “All that remains is to see how much pain you experience before you die. What were you really doing? Cavers don't wear jeans, or woolly jumpers.” He paused. “I didn't really think that anyone wore woolly jumpers any more, not under the age of sixty anyway.”

John scowled at him. “I'm new at it,” he said, ignoring the insult to his jumper. It was a lot warmer than Jack's cheap polyester suit, and far more comfortable. “Haven't had time to buy all the equipment yet.”

Jack sighed and pulled a knife out of his pocket. “I wish you'd tell the truth. Blood's a nightmare to get out of fabric and I rather like that sofa.”

“I'm just a caver,” said John as desperately as he could. “No idea who you are, or what's going on. Please! Just take me to a hospital, or, or just let me go somewhere, I can make my own way. I won't say anything to anyone about you.”

Jack advanced on him, knife in hand. “No,” he agreed. “Because I'm the last person you're going to talk to.” He grabbed at John's bound hands, pulling him forwards on the sofa until he was almost off balance. John attempted to fight back but between his concussion and the ropes tying his hands, it came across more as pathetic flailing than any serious attempt to get free.

Jack pressed his knife firmly against John's collarbone. “How many times do you think I can cut you before you bleed to death?” he asked. _Oh god,_ thought John. _I'm going to die having only kissed Sherlock twice. How's that even remotely fair?_

The door burst open and Sherlock charged in, holding a cricket bat. Jack started back, letting go of John and turning to protect himself, but Sherlock was moving too fast and caught him with a hard blow to the side of the head before he could react. John was caught off-balance by Jack's move and was unable to keep himself upright with his hands tied and his head still pounding, and fell forwards off the sofa and crashed back down into oblivion.

 

****

 

This time when he woke up, he could hear the familiar sounds of a hospital room and let out a quiet, relieved breath.

“John?” said Sherlock's voice and John forced his eyes to open against the neon glare of the lights to see him.

Sherlock was sitting next to the bed, still covered in rock dust. “You're a mess,” John said as a greeting.

Sherlock glanced down at himself, then looked back up. “I'm not the one wrapped in bandages,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

John felt his head gingerly to find that Sherlock was right, swathes of bandages were bound around his head. He groaned. “Harry's going to make mummy jokes,” he said wearily.

“It's nearly Halloween,” said Sherlock. “We probably have enough bandages at home to complete the costume.”

John glared at him. “And who are you going to be?” he asked. “Freddie Flintoff?”

Sherlock looked blank. “Who?”

John sighed. “He's a cricketer,” he explained. Sherlock continued to look blank. “You hit Jack with a cricket bat?” prompted John.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “Ah, yes,” he said. “That.”

“Thanks, by the way,” said John.

Sherlock looked even more uncomfortable. “I did say that I wouldn't let anything happen to you,” he said.

That reminded John of what else had taken place in the cave, hazy memories filtering back in past the block of his head injury. “You also said I was the best man you'd ever known,” he remembered.

“You had a concussion,” Sherlock pointed out quickly.

John frowned. “Is that meant to make me forget that you kissed me?” he asked. “Twice?”

“I was rather hoping,” muttered Sherlock, gazing down at the floor as if it were the scene of a particularly gruesome triple murder.

Disappointment flooded through John and he swallowed hard to keep it down. “We can pretend that it didn't happen, if you want,” he offered stiffly.

Sherlock's head came up and he stared hard at John for a long moment, sharp eyes narrowed. “What do _you_ want?” he asked carefully.

John stared back, trying to see what he was thinking but utterly failing, as usual. Still, there was a barely-restrained tension around his eyes that suggested that whatever answer John came up with was going to be incredibly important to Sherlock, so he took a deep breath and told the truth. “I want you to do it again,” he said simply.

Sherlock's face lit up and he didn't waste any more time with words. He leant forward and kissed John instead, and John brought his hand up to tangle in Sherlock's dusty hair, holding him close so that he could kiss him properly, the way he'd always thought about doing it when he was lying awake at night, listening to Sherlock playing the violin downstairs and wondering what it would take to get him to shut up.

“I bet that never happened at the end of Enid Blyton,” said Sherlock when John finally let him pull back.

John laughed. “I don't know,” he said. “George and Anne always seemed awfully close.”

Sherlock made a face. “Ugh, girls,” he said and kissed John again. John was more than happy to concede the point.


End file.
